


Run Through the Fire, Smile in the Rain

by Nopride4531



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, M/M, and i go feral, and you know what?, i see an emotionally constipated man, i'm a simple bisexual, okay listen:, so does Jaskier, who is soft for his best friend / lover
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-09
Updated: 2020-02-09
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:14:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22626925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nopride4531/pseuds/Nopride4531
Summary: It was supposed to be a simple hunt. Abandoned castle, magical defense symbols, spirit-demons said to steal the souls of the dying—easy stuff.What it turned into was a nightmare.Or, the one where Jaskier tries to make a sacrifice and gets whumped for his trouble. The usual.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 8
Kudos: 213





	Run Through the Fire, Smile in the Rain

“You know,” Jaskier said as he absently plucked a twig from his sleeve, “this could be going a lot faster if you’d let me help.”

Geralt looked over his shoulder, gave half of a grunt, then went back to… whatever it was that required all his focus. They were hunting something or other, a… nope. He couldn’t remember. Or if he did remember, he would probably butcher the name in his mind and out loud when he tried to pronounce it.

Regardless, they needed bait. And of course, of course, they couldn’t go into their local bait shop and just buy some. No, it had to be some obscure ingredient that Jaskier also couldn’t pronounce. Something about a type of knot? No, wait, a berry. No…

It didn’t matter. Geralt was doing all the work, and Jaskier was just sitting by as usual. And, as usual, he would craft an exquisite ballad after the whole ordeal, one to set forth a standard for the ages. Perhaps it would even win them rooms at the inn tonight.

But for now, as Geralt wove bits of straw, twigs, and vines together, Jaskier was undoubtedly, inevitably bored. They’d made camp for the night in a small clearing. Off in the distance, the ruins of an old castle stood high on a hill. Jaskier certainly wasn’t the most experienced hunter, but he knew a thing or two about monsters now, and a thing or two about Geralt. One: monsters typically stayed away from well populated areas. And two? Geralt usually made camp a ways away from their intended location, but still close enough to sense what was going on. “Whatever we’re hunting,” Jaskier tried again, “it’s in the castle, isn’t it?”

At this, Geralt paused for half a second. He didn’t look up, but the lack of movement was enough. “We?” He asked in a tone that suggested it would be anything but. 

“Of course ‘we.’” Jaskier tried not to roll his eyes, and failed miserably. “I can’t write the ballad if I didn’t see what happened.”

This time, Geralt looked at him. Something in his eyes made Jaskier want to fidget (why were they always so intense?), but he held his ground. 

“Sluagh aren’t worthy of a ballad,” Geralt eventually murmured as he went back to his weaving. 

“Sloo—what now?” Jaskier frowned. “The townspeople said it was some kind of spirit. It’s been stealing—”

“They,” Geralt interrupted, tying a final knot. “They’ve been stealing cattle. Sluagh never go anywhere alone.” He sighed and began working on another project, but with the same shape. “And the townspeople are half-right. Sluagh are part spirit.” He paused, as if considering what he should say next. “They’re also part demon. And yes, they’re in the castle.”

A shudder ran down Jaskier’s spine. Spirits were one thing, demons another. Spirits and demons together? Well, it would make for an interesting ballad, no doubt. 

“Right then,” Jaskier rubbed at his arms, suddenly cold all over. He blamed the dark, moonless sky. “What’s that you’re making then?”

Geralt continued to weave and spoke without looking up again. “It’s a symbol of fire. Sluagh don’t like fire. Hopefully, this will keep them at bay.”

Jaskier peered at the object. It looked like a square with rectangles sticking out of it in an oddly circular motion. Four of them, to be exact. He looked from it, to their campfire, then back to the symbol again. A frown fell over his face.

“Doesn’t look like fire,” he said. “Looks more like a… a…” He wracked his mind for the appropriate words. “Well, I don’t really know what it looks like.”

Geralt finished the second symbol and set it aside. He finally turned to Jaskier. “No one does,” he admitted, an odd edge to his voice. It vanished completely as he tossed one of the woven objects to Jaskier. “Here.”

Jaskier caught it and examined it closely. While Geralt would get no coin for craftsmanship, he did have to admit it looked strangely beautiful. Radiant, even. Like fire. 

“When are we heading out?” He asked. He wanted to say more, but something had caught in his throat and he couldn’t get the words out.

Geralt’s lips twitched as if he understood. “Soon. Get some rest.”

.

.

.

Three hours later saw them hiking the hill up to the castle. Geralt led the way, Jaskier trailing behind him. He’d left Roach at camp, which Jaskier thought was for the best. The hill was steep. And while the mare would probably handle it just fine, it was best not to risk anything in case they had to make a hasty escape. 

Jaskier reached into his pocket and touched the symbol. Perhaps he imagined it, but he could have sworn he felt a flash of warmth soothe his freezing bones. The night was cold, dark, and bore the first real chill of winter. He suddenly wished he’d thought to bring warmer clothes, or at least a cloak. Then again, cloaks didn’t suit him. Never had. And he was nothing if not a creature of appearance.

They reached the old doors within the hour. Dark oak and knotted, they loomed above them both like silent guardians. What they guarded remained lost on Jaskier. Nevertheless, he felt uneasy. Those doors looked like they hadn’t been opened in centuries at least, maybe longer. Whatever was inside, whatever awaited them? It couldn’t be anything good.

Geralt, as always, picked up on his nervousness in an instant. “You should wait back at camp,” he said.

Jaskier would have laughed if he knew it wouldn’t come out ragged. “And miss my chance at a brilliant song?” He smiled. “Not a chance.”

“I’m serious, Jaskier.” Geralt gave him a look that would’ve made any man quake in his boots. Jaskier just raised a brow. 

“So am I.”

“Sluagh aren’t to be taken lightly.” Geralt sounded more than exasperated now. “They don’t think the same way other beasts do. They’re smart. They don’t feel.”

 _They’re not the only ones,_ Jaskier thought, but kept that to himself. Instead, he reached into his pocket and touched the symbol again. “Neither one of us will feel anything but cold if we don’t get indoors soon,” he said with a smirk. “Care to do the honors?”

Geralt stared at him for a moment longer than Jaskier was used to, then turned to the doors. They gave a hideous sounding groan when he opened them. If Jaskier was more superstitious, he would have thought they were trying to give some sort of final warning. He shuddered again. Luckily, Geralt had his back to him and didn’t see it. Good. The last thing Jaskier needed was another lecture.

Inside the castle, the air was musty, cold, and smelled vaguely of ash. They were in the entryway, facing suits of rusted armor that had long since lost their weapons. Off in the distance, the faint whistling of the wind echoed throughout the halls. Jaskier’s fingers drifted back to the symbol in his pocket. For the song, he told himself. For the song.

Geralt found a torch and ran his fingers over the top. They came back slick with oil. It didn’t take long for flames to ignite in place and light up a small section of the entryway. 

“Hold this,” he said, handing the torch to Jaskier. “The sluagh are probably in the great hall. Stay close and do not drop that symbol.”

Jaskier nodded and took the torch, grateful for its warmth. “Right. Got it.”

They walked mostly in silence. Every step they took echoed painfully against the stone floor. Even Geralt, who ordinarily never made a sound, wasn’t immune to this. Jaskier chalked it up to good acoustics. It was a castle, after all. It must have seen some wonderful parties and heard even better songs in its day. He longed to hear them, too.

It didn’t take them long to find the great hall. No doors guarded it, and there were no suits of armor, either. A long table stood in the center, surrounded by chairs.

And in those chairs, much to Jaskier’s immediate horror, were rows of skeletons. He felt his eyes widen. 

“Geralt,” he whispered, only to be immediately cut off.

“Quiet.” Geralt’s whisper was easily quieter than Jaskier’s, but he heard it nonetheless.

For once, he listened and shut up. The skeletons… he couldn’t take his eyes off the skeletons. They sat in their chairs rigidly, impossibly, as if they were still convening at a council. They still wore clothes, clothes bearing the sigils of their families. Jaskier found his eyes fixating on one skeleton in particular.

Its sigil was gone.

The torch went out then, plunging the room into darkness. Jaskier couldn’t see his own hand in front of him, nor could he see his breath. He didn’t need to see it to know it came out white. 

“Geralt,” he said again, trying to be louder, but couldn’t manage anything above another whisper. “Geralt, something’s wrong.”

He felt Geralt nod more than he saw it. “I know. Stay close. I’ll light the torch again.” 

It took a few moments, during which Jaskier started hearing things, things he would rather not hear at all. They sounded like… dry hinges, only not as high pitched.

And they were getting closer. 

Light burst into the room as Geralt finally succeeded in lighting the torch. Jaskier looked around, confused. Nothing had changed. The sounds had vanished.

Everything looked like it had—except for one thing.

The skeleton without a sigil was nowhere to be seen.

Jaskier wordlessly looked at Geralt, silently asking him if he’d noticed it, too. A quick tip of the chin confirmed it.

 _Well that makes me feel better,_ Jaskier thought, feeling a hysterical laugh bubbling in his chest. _No need to worry; we’re just missing a skeleton that was here a few seconds ago._

Geralt moved toward the table, hand on the hilt of his sword. Jaskier went to follow. But before he could even manage a single step, frosty breath, breath far colder than his own or anything living, blew against the back of his neck.

Jaskier froze.

He didn’t dare turn around. Something told him that if he turned around, he would die. Instead, his fingers reached into his pocket on their own accord and gripped the symbol with everything they had. Warmth filled him, blessed liquid fire, and he felt some of his fear evaporate.

It wasn’t enough.

A hideous, high-pitched screech filled the room, the worst of it sounding right next to Jaskier’s ear. He didn’t know why he couldn’t move, didn’t know if it was terror or magic or both, but he stayed rooted to his spot. Geralt whipped around, drawing his sword in one swift, fluid movement. 

The screeching stopped.

Geralt’s expression shifted as he stared directly behind Jaskier. He carefully took a step forward, sword at the ready.

“Jaskier,” he said, voice so calm it didn’t sound calm at all. “You need to move.” 

And Jaskier tried. Really, he did. But the only thing he could move, truly move, was his left hand, the one in his pocket. He looked at Geralt with wide eyes.

“I can’t,” he stammered. “G-Geralt, I can’t.”

The torch flickered, casting shadows across the great hall. Jaskier felt something icy suddenly grab his throat and squeeze. Then, the flames steadied. The tightening stopped… but the pressure remained. 

“Geralt,” he managed again. “Geralt, what do I do?”

The witcher watched him carefully, taking a few steps closer. Jaskier felt his heart racing out of his chest. It didn’t take much to figure out that he was probably going to die. And although he wanted to be brave, wanted to show everyone that he wasn’t a coward after all, he couldn’t. He couldn’t because he was scared. He didn’t want to die. There was still so much out there, so many adventures to be had. And more than that, way further, way more important—he didn’t want to leave Geralt alone. 

Jaskier touched the symbol in his pocket again, as if saying a final goodbye. Almost instantly, the pressure on his throat released. The torch flickered unsteadily in his hands, then dropped to the floor as something shoved him hard to the side. He thought he heard Geralt shout, thought he heard a lot of things, really. Maybe he did. Either way, when he hit the ground, the torch went out.

The screeching started again. This time, it came for Geralt. 

Jaskier couldn’t see. He couldn’t see and he couldn’t help. He lay there, useless on the damp old stones, every breath feeling like it was suffocating him. He heard Geralt grunting as he fought off one, two, three, impossible numbers of the monsters. And then—Jaskier heard the clang of a sword as it clattered to the ground on the other side of the room. 

That spurred him into motion. He got shakily to his feet and stumbled blindly toward where he thought the fight raged on. He heard the high pitched screaming of the sluagh, heard what sounded like victory. Their victory. And Jaskier wouldn’t—couldn’t—stand for that. His fingers closed around the sleeve of Geralt’s tunic. The witcher was miraculously still upright. 

“Jaskier!” Came the warning, as if Geralt knew what he was going to do before he himself did.

It didn’t matter. Jaskier took the symbol from his own pocket and shoved it into Geralt’s. How he found it escaped him. Call it a stroke of luck, call it a flash of divine intervention. Either way, Geralt was now doubly protected; he would be okay. 

Instantly, Jaskier felt himself being thrown across the room. He crashed into one of the smaller tables, destroying the old rotten wood beneath his weight. In a flash of hysteria, he thought of splinters. But then the sluagh were upon him. One, two, three, he didn’t know. Where they touched him (and he knew for certain they were touching him), he felt freezing, like someone had submerged him in a bath of ice. 

But then? Then the pain came.

He screamed as one of the sluagh tore into his side and stomach, leaving three parallel gashes of deep crimson. Another ripped a bloody streak down his left leg, while yet another gripped his face in icy talons. He could feel its frosty breath on his lips. Jaskier tried to scream again, but it was like he was beneath a field of ice. Only a muffled groan escaped him. 

Dimly, he became aware of Geralt shouting, a song of furious curses and screams tearing itself from his throat. Jaskier could scarcely focus on anything, but he clung to this like a line of rope. Geralt was here. He would be okay. 

Maybe he faded for a few seconds, or maybe it happened so quickly, he couldn’t track it. Either way, the room was suddenly on fire. Starving flames greedily ate the rotting wood of the great hall’s tables. The creatures on Jaskier gave one final collective screech, then abruptly withdrew. He couldn’t find it in himself to feel relieved at their absence. He couldn’t find it in himself to feel much of anything anymore.

Something shook him gently, and he opened his eyes (strange; he didn’t remember shutting them) to see Geralt kneeling over him, expression unreadable. Jaskier tried to offer him a smile. He even tried to say he was okay. But the second he opened his mouth, blood flowed from the corners. He turned his head to the side and coughed weakly, desperately trying to get rid of it. 

Pain flared all over his body as he felt himself being shifted. He could barely understand that Geralt had lifted him, barely understand that he needed to expect pain. Pain was good. Pain meant he was still alive. 

All around them, flames swirled and climbed, while thick plumes of smoke billowed into every corner, every space. Jaskier coughed again, spraying droplets of crimson into the air. He felt Geralt tighten his hold on him. Wildly, he thought this was it; this was how he would die. In a burning castle in the arms of a witcher. Well… not just any witcher. His witcher. And maybe… maybe that was okay. Certainly not ideal, but it would make for a pretty song.

By the time they reached the doors, Jaskier felt himself fading faster and faster. It took maybe three more seconds, three agonizing, terrible seconds, before blessed cool air dowsed him. 

And then there was nothing but peaceful darkness. 


End file.
